


Alone Again... Unnaturally

by LilyK



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Case Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 07:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16991022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyK/pseuds/LilyK
Summary: Starsky regains consciousness and discovers he's been sent to a long term care facility. But for some reason, he's alone, with no Hutch in sight.





	Alone Again... Unnaturally

Waking up after being unconscious was not something that was full of fun and games. And Starsky admitted that this time wasn't any better than the last.

The last? Starsky lay still, trying to think. The last time he’d been out for a long count was... Was that when that bastard Jennings shot him up with some deadly crap, giving him twenty-four hours to live? Yeah, he’d been in unconscious (as Hutch had told him) for eighteen hours. He remembered waking up and feeling like crap. He felt that way now but since his brain was working, he was grateful for small favors.

Wait... Had that been the last time? No, there'd been another. Hadn’t there? Damn. Maybe his noggin wasn’t working as well as he'd thought. Maybe it was fried, because he couldn’t remember what he was sure he should. Before he panicked, Starsky forced himself to move onto an examination of his body. 

He felt like death warmed over, times ten. His head pounded relentlessly, his temples throbbing in time to his heart beat. And yes, his heart was beating (thank heavens!) much too quickly. He was breathing harshly, his lungs aching. The panting made his mouth as dry as any desert could be, and try as he might, his eyelids wouldn't open. Maybe they were glued shut. Stupid, Starsk, he thought. Glued, yeah right. Keep going before you cry like a baby. 

Arms next. Yeah, he could feel his arms. He knew he had an IV in his right. At least he thought he did. He wiggled his fingers but since he couldn’t open his damned eyes, he couldn’t tell if they were moving or it was his mind telling him they were. That sucked. He needed to see. With an annoyed snort, he moved on. Next came his legs. His legs... Oh, shit.

With a wild cry, Starsky lifted a shaky hand and scrubbed viciously at his eyes. Pain lanced through him and he ignored it, finally able to crack his lids. He froze, looking around. His eyes darted frantically. A damned hospital room. At least that was something familiar but his legs! 

Thank heavens his upper back wasn't injured from whatever the hell had happened. He was able to push himself up onto his elbows and stare down. A sheet covered his body and his toes made two tents at the end of the bed. He glared at his legs and ordered them to move. Nothing. 

Nothing! 

Starsky licked his lips and tried again. This time he focused everything he had on his legs. 

"Move, damn you. Move!" he muttered. "Move, move, move!" Starsky pounded a fist on his thigh. He felt nothing. "Movemovemove!" He smashed his hand into his flesh over and over, his eyesight wavering, his chest heaving. 

From somewhere off to his right, Starsky was vaguely aware of sound and movement. He ignored everything but his paralyzed limbs. Frantic now, he fought the hands that grasped him, pushing him back onto the mattress. 

"Noooo," he wailed. "Get the fuck off'a me!" Starsky's heart was pounding hard, thudding in his ears. His chest hurt and he fought as hard as he could. 

Lethargy came on suddenly. All the fight leached from his body, replaced with a groggy, floating feeling of peace. It was a false thing, he understood that, but he had no ability to fight what surely had been drugs pumped into him by 'them', the owners of the unfamiliar hands. Starsky went limp against the sheets. He blinked dazedly, barely able to see through his tears. A wavy white form moved from one side of the bed to the other. Sounds came from it: "Re... x. Ever... ng sss all ri..." 

Starsky fell into the darkness with a whimper. 

\---------------------

Waking up from being knocked out wasn't much fun. Waking up after being dosed with heavy duty drugs sucked even more. 

Starsky felt like crap. He opened his eyes and groaned. His belly lurched and he gagged, bile rising in his throat. 

"Welcome back, Dave," said a female voice. 

Starsky swallowed, the acid burning his throat. He breathed in slowly and exhaled before he looked for the person who had spoken. It wasn't the voice he'd been hoping to hear. He wanted Hutch's voice soothing him. Where was Hutch? He should be here! 

"Dave?" 

With a heavy heart, Starsky looked at the woman standing on the right side of the bed. She was a nurse. Dressed in the required uniform of her profession, the white dress was the usual sort of thing a nurse wore. She had one of those silly nurse's hats perched on her blond hair. She wasn't pretty but she was pleasant looking, about his own age, with smooth skin, hazel eyes and full lips. Her smile was warm. 

"I'm Carol. How are you feeling?" Carol asked. She raised a hand, a needle in it. "Time for your medication." 

"No, please," Starsky begged. "I'm feeling okay. No more shots." 

Carol patted his arm. "I'm not the doctor but-" She looked around conspiratorially. "This once. I guess you're tired of being doped up." 

"Yeah. Really tired." Starsky gave her a smile he hoped looked genuine. "I'm thirsty. Any chance of a root beer?" He winked at her, trying for levity he certainly didn't feel. 

Carol must have bought it because she laughed merrily. "No, Dave, but how about a nice glass of water?" She poured water from a plastic pitcher sitting on the bedside stand into a plastic glass. She added a straw and bent it so that Starsky could drink. 

Embarrassed at his helplessness, Starsky held out a hand that shook slightly. He flexed his fingers and waited. Carol tsk'd and gave him the glass. He was able to drink without dumping the contents onto himself. Well, most of the contents. When he passed the glass back, he was inordinately proud of his accomplishment. 

"What's wrong with my legs? Where am I? Where's Hutch?" Starsky asked hurriedly, questions tumbling over one another. "I need Hutch. Can I call him? Where's Dobey?"

"Slow down, Dave. I'm not your doctor, but let's see what I know. You're doing fine, so relax. You're in a long term care home for coma victims." Carol gave him a pleased smile. "And you're awake. That's good. That means you're recovering." 

"Long term?" Starsky echoed, a cold sweat washing over him. Why wasn't Hutch here when he woke up? Where was his partner, his best friend, the man he loved? Where? "How long?" he made himself ask. 

"Quite a while. Almost five months. But you're doing fine now!" Carol winked at him. 

Five months! 

"No, I can't have been unconscious that long. No way." Starsky glared at Carol. "That's not possible." 

Carol tucked the sheet under the mattress. "It's hard to believe, but trust me, I wouldn't lie to you." 

Starsky gritted his teeth. "Can I talk to the doctor? I need to talk to the doctor." 

"Of course. Bill Martin is your doctor. He'll be in to see you in about," she looked at her watch, "four hours. Until then, how about a nice bowl of broth?" 

Starsky's brain rebelled at the idea of eating before he found out what was happening to him, but his stomach had other ideas. It rumbled loudly. Starsky grimaced, and gave in to the idea that he'd have to wait four hours. He looked around again. No clock. No nothing! No clock, no television, no radio. Hell, not even a magazine. What kind of place was this? 

Carol laughed. "Okay, then. I think your tummy is making the decision for you. Chicken broth and ginger ale, coming right up." 

"Thanks," Starsky muttered, not feeling like being particularly gracious. He wanted answers and he wanted them now. 

"Nap time anyway. I'll be back with your lunch in about thirty minutes." 

"Nap? I don't want a nap. I want to talk to the doctor." Starsky knew he sounded petulant but he didn't care. He wanted answers. "And I want to make a phone call." 

"Rest now, and you'll be up and about in no time." Carol ignored his demands and turned to leave. 

Starsky lay back, trying to ignore his useless lower body. "Hey, how about a TV or a radio?" 

"No television or radio, I'm afraid. The doctor feels it's detrimental to patients' recovery," Carol said. "He believes that those things bring on stress and he wants you to be stress free." 

"Huh? Well, how about a book or a magazine? Something." Starsky hated the whining in his voice but he couldn't help it. He was tired and hungry and he admitted to himself, afraid. Very afraid. 

She walked over to the bedside table and opened a drawer. "Here we are." She passed him two books. 

Starsky glanced at the titles: The Holy Bible and The Book of Mormon. "Gee, thanks a lot." 

"Enjoy your reading." 

Then she was gone, and he was alone with his paralyzed legs and his jumbled thoughts. 

What was wrong with him? What had happened to his legs? Where was he? And most importantly, where in hell was Hutch? Hutch loved him, he knew that for a fact. Yet Hutch wasn't here. Why? 

\-------------------------

Starsky drank the soup and ginger ale quickly. He was starving and the liquids did little to assuage his hunger. He ignored Carol as she bustled about the room, adjusting his IV and refilling his water pitcher. By the time he'd finished the food, he was so sleepy he could barely keep his eyes open. Carol left him alone. Starsky was determined to stay awake. He didn't want the doctor to come by and find him asleep. He had questions and he was going to demand answers. Several times, Starsky began to nod off, but he jerked himself back to wakefulness. He fought the lethargy for several minutes before he couldn't help but drift off. The last thought he had was he wondered if they' d drugged his food. No, not his food. He hadn't been paying attention to Carol but now he realized that while he'd been greedily drinking the soup, she'd slipped a hypo into his IV line. 

"Shit," he slurred. He had to get out of there. Whatever was going on, this place gave him the creeps. He fell asleep. 

\------------------------

Awake again and alone, Starsky intently examined the room in which he was being held. Held. There was no other word for it. He was a captive. Although the idea sounded ludicrous on one level, on another, it seemed to be the truth. 

The room was plain. The walls were white wood paneling. The floor was industrial gray linoleum. There was a cupboard cum closet against one wall. His bed was the usual white hospital bed with one of those tables on wheels that the nurse had pushed over to him while he ate. The sheets were white, the blanket was pale yellow and his pajamas were the same yellow. The bedside stand was white metal (he was sick of white!) with one drawer. The drawer held the two books Carol had given him earlier. He knew that because he'd checked after she'd left. There was a bright yellow plastic water container, the only stab of color in the room. Even the plastic cup and straw were white. There was no window, no closet, no bathroom. One door led out, and in. It was boring and bland, and scared the hell out of him. 

"Wait... No bathroom?" Starsky hurriedly pulled away the sheet and blanket and lifted the waist band of his bottoms. A white material swathed him. A fucking diaper! "No, no, no." He looked under the diaper; he had been catheterized. Panic once again was his friend, and it held hands with terror and fear. He wasn't even able to piss on his own. He didn't think about the other things that made sweat break out on his body. 

Starsky lay back for a moment, blinking furiously. He stared up at the white acoustic tiles on the ceiling and tried not to sob. His chest clenched painfully as if his heart was spasming. He clutched at his pecs, pushing away the pajama top. His fingers felt the puckered skin and he lifted his chin to stare down. 

Shocked, Starsky saw the scars crisscrossing his chest. Scars? He traced each one with a fingertip, his brain running full tilt. Scars... Oh my God. "Gunther," he whispered. "Hutch. Gunter is gonna kill Hutch. He shot me and I have to warn Hutch." He dug his fingers into his own flesh. Then it hit him. The scars weren't new; they were months old, six or more. He knew enough about scars to understand that he'd had surgery a good while ago. 

What Carol had said came back in a rush. He was in a long term care home for coma patients. He'd been here for what? Six months? Longer?

"No," he said aloud. "No, no. I can't have been here, laid here like a lump of meat for months!" 

But the proof was before him. His chest was healed up. The scars were months old. Right now, he didn't remember anything past what had happened in the parking lot at the precinct: screeching tires, crunching metal, Hutch screaming, bullets flying. The more he thought about what he did remember, the less things he could recall. 

Starsky covered his face with his hands. His head was muzzy; his thoughts jumbled. Even to himself, he sounded nuts. He might not remember what had happened after he'd been shot but he knew full well what was going on at the moment. At least he thought he did. He was a cripple and he'd been in a coma for months on end. He'd obviously been abandoned because he was alone, in a white room without a single thing to let him know that Hutch had been to visit. There were no flowers, no plants, no nothing. Not even a Hot Rod magazine or a copy of Reader's Digest. 

He was alone. 

Swamped with depression, Starsky knew that if he had his gun with him, he'd have eaten a bullet without giving it a second thought. Well, he didn't have his gun but he wasn't living like this. 

"Gotta get out," Starsky muttered to himself. Expecting pain, he gritted his teeth and yanked out the catheter. Teeth clenched, tears sprang to his eyes when he didn't feel a thing. This made it much worse than he could ever imagine. 

"Holy hell," Starsky said, struggling not to give into his panic. Swiping away the moisture from his eyes, he pulled out the IV needle before he levered his upper body towards the edge of the bed. His legs were dead weight. He yanked on one pajama leg to drag his left leg over the edge. He had to get out of here. It wasn't right. This place wasn't right. He wasn't right. 

The leg thudded to the floor. His bare foot made a thump; he couldn't feel the coolness of the linoleum under his heel. "Christ," he whimpered as he struggled to keep from taking a header. He yanked the right leg. 

Gravity took over. The weight of his useless lower body brought the upper part along for the ride. Starsky crashed to the floor, slamming his chin hard. He saw stars. His teeth cut into his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth. He spat it onto the floor, grimacing at the taste. 

Using his hands and elbows, Starsky started to drag himself towards the door when he remembered he didn't have any clothes, not to mention unable to walk. How was he going to escape? He chewed on his lower lip. Why was he even trying? A moment ago he wanted to eat a bullet and now he wanted to be free? 

"Drugs are screwing with your head," Starsky told himself. "Get your ass moving. Now!" He pulled himself another few inches and had gotten to an arm's length of the door when it opened, slamming into his head. "Owww," he cried out, startled. 

"Mr. Starsky?" said the unfamiliar man's voice. "What in God's name are you doing?" 

Starsky rubbed at the knot on his forehead. "Getting outta Dodge," he snapped. 

"You're going to harm yourself. Nurse!" the man called out. 

Starsky cranked his head, looking up legs that seemed ten feet tall. He followed the brown trousers up and up until he reached the man's leather belt. A white shirt tucked into it and farther as his gaze followed the buttons until he saw the man looking down at him. He was older, with graying hair and a compassionate face. He had intelligent brown eyes and a close cropped beard. He was wearing a white lab coat with a name tag that Starsky couldn't read from his position sprawled on the floor. The illusive Doctor Martin, he assumed. 

"Doctor?" Starsky asked. 

With a curt nod, the doctor said, "Let's get you back into bed, young man." 

Starsky saw another pair of legs sporting white stockings and white crepe soled shoes. More white. He groaned. 

"Help me with him, Carol." 

Together, the two wrestled Starsky back onto the bed. He lay panting from exertion, angry at his lack of strength. Carol ripped open a packet encased in white paper with blue writing. Another catheter. 

"Stay away from me," Starsky snarled, putting as much menace into his tone as he could. 

"That's not how we act when we are being helped, Mr. Starsky. You are an ill man." 

"Screw you," Starsky said harshly. "Stay back! Leave me alone! Where's Hutch? Hutch!" 

"Carol, please get me a hypo and 10 cc-" 

"No! No drugs," Starsky demanded. Angry tears streamed down his cheeks. "I'm warning you!" 

Carol paused. 

Dr. Martin looked at Starsky with sympathy. "Nurse, now." 

She hurried from the room. 

"You are not giving me any more tranqs!" Starsky crossed his arms, feeling helpless. "Stay away or you'll be sorry." 

"That is a negative attitude. Your recovery won't be helped with negativity. Besides, if you hadn't proven that you can't be trusted to stay in bed, I might not have had to sedate you." 

Carol returned, a hypodermic in her hands. She handed it to the doctor, who took it with a smile. "Thank you." He approached the bed. 

Starsky lurched out, a fist connecting with the doctor's arm. 

Dr. Martin grunted, stepping back. He had kept hold of the hypo, much to Starsky's dismay. "Nurse." 

Starsky froze. He couldn't smack a woman, could he? She wasn't doing anything but following orders. 

Carol approached the opposite side of the bed, her hands held out, her entire demeanor placating. "Dave, please." 

"Don't touch me," Starsky said, his voice shaking. "No shots." 

Carol looked at the doctor. They exchanged a glance, then Carol went to the end of the bed, far from Starsky's reach. She grabbed his ankles firmly and to Starsky's startled amazement, flipped him onto his stomach and pulled his pajama bottoms and diaper down, exposing his butt cheek. She was stronger than she looked. Before he could take another breath, Martin slammed the needle into him. He didn't feel it but he was struggling to escape, his neck craned to watch over his shoulder. The needle slid into his skin cleanly and Martin pressed the plunger. 

"No, no! Damn you! Don't!"

Starsky's protests were ignored. He was unconscious in moments. 

\------------------------

Starsky had no idea how long he'd been out of commission. All he could do was lay in his bed and let two strangers do what they would to him. There had been another violent incident, and this time he'd woken to find his wrists firmly tied down. He lay in the dark, teeth clenched and body rigid with anger. He'd finally convinced Carol to untie him after he'd promised to behave. He hated being so complacent but if he hoped to escape, being bound to the bed certainly wouldn't help his cause. 

Carol came and went, speaking soothingly. He hated her. He hated himself more. He hated the helplessness and the loneliness. He had nothing but time to think, so he thought. He was in major trouble but he had no clue what to do about it. He could see no way to escape, and he hadn't seen another person other than Carol and Dr. Martin. Whatever sort of worthless care facility this was, it sure sucked. Starsky longed to be allowed out of the room. To see sunshine or a bird or a tree. He was going nuts trapped in this bed, in this room. 

Carol tended to his bodily needs, brought him food, gave him a sponge bath without untying his hands. She washed his hair in a tiny plastic basin that was much too small for the job. She even brushed his teeth. He was mortified. Dr. Martin had been in to see him twice more, but he conducted no physical examinations. That scared Starsky to death. On one hand, if his condition were hopeless, maybe the doctor had no reason to examine him. But on the other hand, if Starsky was here for some other reason, it meant he was being kept alive until... 

What? Until the ransom was paid? Until what? 

Starsky was driving himself nuts thinking about it. If they'd wanted him dead, he'd be dead by now. But they were keeping him alive. Was he a hostage or a pawn? Damn it to hell! He wished he could remember what had happened recently. His mind felt thick and muddled, like overcooked oatmeal. He had enough wherewithal to understand that the the drugs were screwing up his head. 

"I gotta get out of here," Starsky said yet again. His mantra these days, he knew, but he couldn't help it. He had to get the hell out of Dodge because he'd come to believe that if Martin was a real doctor, then he was Farrah Fawcett. And he didn't have the boobs to pull that off. He had to do something to gain his freedom. 

But what? 

Time seemed to crawl by. Starsky considered that. He was bored out of his skull, true. How much time had actually passed since he'd first woken up? How many meals had he had? Six, seven? So three a day; two days? But wait, he'd been knocked out thanks to Martin's 'happy hypo' twice. He could have been unconscious for five minutes, or five hours or five days. He had no way of knowing. As much as he tried to convince himself that Hutch would find him, would charge to the rescue, he grew more depressed by the second. His reality was that he was a captive, a hostage to his own body, and to whoever had put him into this awful place. 

Starsky had one awful thought that he'd tried to avoid giving credence to, but it kept kicking him in the forehead. He gave in and let the thoughts coalesce. Where was Hutch and why had he been put here? Were they related? Had Hutch allowed him to be incarcerated here? Did Hutch know? 

Where was Hutch?

Was Hutch alive? 

He didn't know which was worse: that Hutch had put him here or that Hutch had abandoned him. 

The thought that Hutch was dead made him sick. He had to consider the possibility that Hutch was dead. Why else wouldn't the man who loved him have come for him? 

The walls closed in on Starsky. The ceiling lowered until he was squashed into a box that wasn't large enough to hold a pair of his Adidas. He pounded against the top and sides, fists flying as he screamed, "Hutch!". 

Starsky started. He woke, the room dark. Was it night or had they turned out the lights to fool him? He was hungry and thirsty. Food was unattainable but he could drink. He grabbed the water pitcher from the night stand and drank directly from the container. Water dribbled down his chin and onto his pajamas. He didn't care. 

He didn't care about a God damned thing. He didn't care because Hutch was dead. 

With a cry, Starsky threw the pitcher against the wall. He felt a stab of satisfaction when he heard the container hit and the remainder of the water splash to the floor. 

"Fuck you!" he called out. 

Nobody came to check on him. Worse, nobody came to scold him. He was alone. A thought surfaced. What if they'd abandoned him? Carol and Martin took off, left him to die. He couldn't walk! As much as he hated them, he needed them to stay alive. 

"Help," he shouted. "Help!" 

Silence. 

Starsky blinked. The room was so dark he couldn't see his own hand. He lay back, his heart thudding wildly. His belly rumbled and he was hungry and queasy at the same time. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He was scared; he admitted that. Right. He was scared, but he wasn't dead. Not yet. 

The sound of a gunshot make Starsky jerk. His eyes flew open. He sat up. 

"Hutch!" 

Starsky clamped a hand over his mouth. Wait, maybe it wasn't Hutch. It could be- Who? Bad guys. Somebody after him. Gunther? No, he remembered with sudden clarity, Gunther was in prison. How long ago was that? Two months? Ten? Who? He scrubbed at his temples, trying to remember. His head hurt but this was important. He had to remember! 

Another gunshot; loud voices. 

Starsky slid to the side of the bed opposite the door. He felt his way to the edge and slithered to the floor. The catheter tugged at his dick. He hated that shitty thing. Yanking it out roughly, he grimaced at the weird feeling. 

Wait. He'd felt that. Determination flooded through his body. He belatedly remembered the IV and he paused to take out the needle. 

More guns blazing. Starsky froze, and listened intently. No sirens, so it wasn't the cops. Damn. Starsky pulled himself under the bed and lay still, barely breathing. He knew his eyes were wide open yet he couldn't see- Wait! He could see a thin line of light under the door. He blinked. Yes, it was still there. Not that it would help but at least he ruled out that he was blind. 

"Great," he muttered. "Only a cripple. Not blind." He remembered the pain in his cock when he'd pulled out the catheter. Maybe he was getting better. 

Before he could examine this idea, he heard voices shouting and footsteps approaching. He heard doors being opened. 

Starsky thought he heard his name being called out. 

"Starsky!" 

Maybe it was a trick. Whoever it was would come in and put a bullet in his brain. 

"Starsky, where are you?"

Oh, God. 

"Hutch," Starsky whispered. Hutch wasn't dead. Hutch wasn't dead! His throat closed and he had to swallow twice before a sound louder than a croak would emerge. "Hutch!" 

"Starsky!" 

"In here! Hutch!" Starsky used his hands to pull himself towards the door. "Hutch!" His leg twitched and he gritted his teeth. "Hutch!" 

Starsky was part of the way to the door when he heard the knob being twisted back and forth. 

"Hutch!" 

Something big slammed into the door. Starsky knew without a doubt it was his partner. His white knight. 

"Hutch," Starsky said, his voice a whisper, his heart thumping with relief. 

The door flew open. The light blinded Starsky. His eyes flooded with tears and he blinked quickly to clear them. Outlined in the doorway, with the light's glow a halo around his entire body, was his angel. 

"Starsk?" 

"Who else, ya schmuck?" Starsky blurted out. 

Hutch was beside him in two long strides, on his knees and pulling Starsky into his arms. Starsky wrapped his arms around Hutch's torso and held on for dear life. Hutch buried his face in Starsky's hair and they clung to each other. 

"Starsk." 

"I sure as hell ain't Huggy," Starsky mumbled into Hutch's shirt. "God, Hutch, where ya been? I've been waiting for days and days." He sniffled into Hutch's chest. "Hold me." 

"I am holding you." Hutch squeezed him tightly. He whispered, "I thought you were dead." 

"Me too," Starsky said, his own voice still shaking. "I thought I was dead. Glad I'm not." 

Hutch's arms tightened and he let out a choking sound. Starsky grunted at the arms that held him so firmly that he could barely breathe. He didn't care if Hutch killed him, he wasn't moving an inch. 

"Tell me you're okay?" Hutch demanded. 

"My legs," Starsky blurted out, his throat closing. He shut his eyes and shivered. "Can't walk. Ah, Hutch," Starsky said, his voice breaking. "I can't-" 

Hutch yelled over his shoulder, "We need an ambulance in here!" 

Starsky heard one of the other officer's call back, "On its way."

Hutch said, "ETA?" 

"Five minutes." 

"Bring the medics here immediately." 

"Yes, sir." 

Footsteps retreated. Starsky tried to think. "Hutch, what's going on? What happened? Where am I?" 

"Ah, Starsk. It's all my fault." 

Hutch's heart pounded double time under Starsky's ear. His breathing was too fast and his big body shuddered. Starsky heard the guilt in Hutch's voice, the pain, and to his surprise, he didn't care. Fury flooded every cell of his body. 

"Why did you leave me here? Huh?" Starsky shouted, shoving Hutch away. "I was treated like a piece of meat! Where the fuck have you been?" 

"Starsky, please," Hutch pleaded, his hands locked onto Starsky's upper arms. "I've been looking-" 

"I don't wanna hear it! You left me here. I've been tied up and shot full of drugs and you were off doing what? Screwing around? Where the hell have you been?" Starsky couldn't have held back the tears if he'd tried. He grabbed Hutch's arms and dug his fingers in with all the strength he possessed. "Why did you let them do that shit to me? Why?" Starsky shook him with all his might. 

Hutch didn't try to stop Starsky. Tears streaked down his face. Starsky saw the guilt in his eyes and his anger started to fade. Hutch stared at him, eyes wide and bright, silent and stricken. 

"Ah, man," Starsky said, deflating at the stricken look on his partner's face. "Ah, Hutch." He cupped Hutch's cheek in his hand. "No, babe. It's not your fault." Starsky blinked until his eyes cleared. Hutch's head hung down and his chest heaved. he held held onto Starsky hard enough that Starsky knew he'd have bruises. Starsky released his own frantic hold and he rubbed his hands up and down Hutch's arms soothingly. "Hutch? Babe? Could you loosen up? You're hurting me." 

"Oh, Jesus." Hutch's hands dropped. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. We'll find the best doctors. Whatever it takes. Every dime I have is yours." 

"Hey, it's okay. Hutch, don't cry. Please. I'm sorry, too." Starsky's own heart was beating rapidly and he was starting to breathe much too quickly. He took in great gulps of air, shaking. 

"Take it easy, Starsk. Come on, buddy. You're going to hyperventilate and pass out on me." 

Starsky shook his head, his eyes latched onto Hutch's. Hutch's eyes were the most beautiful thing he'd seen in a long time. Large and blue, Hutch looked at Starsky like a drowning man looks at a life preserver. Starsky could swim forever in the love reflected in his eyes. "Hutch," Starsky said, putting both of his hands on Hutch's face. "I love you. I love you so damned much. And I'm so hungry I could eat a horse."

Hutch stared at him for a moment before he began to chuckle softly. "I love you too, nutball." 

Starsky didn't know whether to laugh or cry so he settled for neither, slumping back into Hutch's arms and closing his eyes. He slowly let out a slow, long, relieved breath. Hutch stroked his back and carded his fingers through his hair. Starsky could stay in Hutch's embrace forever. 

\----------------------------- 

Starsky lay in the hospital bed, tense and unhappy. Sure, this room was nicer than the last place he'd been in for the past six days. The walls were a calming green, the drapes soothing muted stripes of green, yellow, cream and tan. The sheets were soft and clean and he had to admit, he was comfortable. There were four vases on the small dresser full of dozens of flowers, sent by his co-workers, Captain and Mrs. Dobey, the waitresses from Huggy's and a dozen red roses Hutch had brought yesterday morning. He even had a large window from which he could see trees and the sky. It was still a cage, as far as Starsky was concerned. 

His body was processing the crap he'd been injected with and he remembered the case they'd been working on when he got snatched. Starsky was getting better by the second. He was getting antsier by the second. He wanted his freedom. Now. 

"I hate being in the damned hospital," Starsky complained aloud. There was no one to hear him but he didn't care. "I was locked up for six days by a psycho and here I am, locked up by my own partner. So much for all those declarations of love." He let out an annoyed growl. "Can't even walk off in a huff." 

"You'll be walking soon and you know it, so stop bitching." 

Hutch's voice stopped Starsky's musing cold. His head snapped up and he watched with a deep hunger as his partner strolled across the room. The man was sex personified. 

"Do you have to look at me like I'm a slab of ribs and you want barbecue?" Hutch asked, amusement coloring his tone. 

Starsky had told himself earlier that he was going to give Hutch the cold shoulder the next time he visited since Hutch had been part of the contingent who had insisted that Starsky be incarcerated in this hospital room (medical opinions aside, of course), but seeing the man of his dreams walk into the room, dressed in tan cords that hugged his body in all the right places, and that sky blue shirt Starsky loved that made his eyes look like an angel's, Starsky's resolve faded. 

"Hey." Starsky grinned. "Can I help it that you're so gorgeous I could eat you up?" 

"I'm nothing but a sex object to you," Hutch said with a laugh. "And here I thought you loved me for my brains." 

"Oh, I love those two," Starsky offered. "But I'd love you more if you get me sprung from this jail." 

Hutch switched from vamp to barely tolerant partner in a breath. He let out a long suffering sigh. "You are not going to stop, are you?" 

Starsky shook his head. "Nope. Not until you spring me." 

Walking over to the bed, Hutch leaned down and touched his lips lightly to Starsky's. 

Starsky raised his face and closed his eyes. "Mmmm. Nice." He latched onto the front of Hutch's shirt and dragged him closer. "Kiss me like you mean it." 

Hutch complied. Their mouths fused together. Starsky opened his and Hutch touched his tongue to Starsky's before he pulled away. "Don't go starting something you can't finish." 

Starsky smiled. "I'm going to be able to finish 'it' soon." He patted his sheet covered crotch. "No catheter as of this morning." 

"Great. I'm sure you're happy." Hutch chuckled. 

"Nah. I might consider having a tube shoved up my dick but it sure ain't by some nurse or doctor." Starsky gave Hutch an annoyed glare. 

"What did the doctor say this morning?" Hutch asked. 

"Two, three days at the most and whatever crap they shoved into me will be gone. I'll be back to normal," Starsky said happily. 

"Normal?" Hutch asked, aghast. "You, David Michael Starsky, have never been even close to normal. In fact, we should call Cabrillo to let them know we've got another patient for them." 

"You're such a putz," Starsky snarled, unable to keep the grin from his face. 

"That's why I love you," Hutch said. "You always say the nicest things to me." 

"I love you too. Even if you are mean to me." Starsky thrust out his lower lip. "And me, being an invalid and all." 

Hutch sighed dramatically. "Then I suppose I should go. Since I'm such a worthless excuse for a partner, I'll bet you're not interested in me passing on the lab results that just came in. I don't want to disturb you, seeing as how much you're enjoying your relaxing vacation here in The Memorial Resort of Greater Bay City." He turned to leave. 

"No! Come on, Hutch," Starsky whined. "Tell me!" 

With a chuckle, Hutch pulled a chair over to Starsky's bed and Starsky watched with appreciation as Hutch poured his long, lean body onto the hard plastic chair. 

"So spill," Starsky demanded. "Don't leave me hanging." 

"Carol spilled everything on interrogation, as you know. Gave us a solid lead and that's what led us to Murdock's hidden stash." 

"Yeah, yeah. Tell me the good stuff." Starsky waved a hand impatiently. 

"Well, the police and hospital labs both ran the tests so we're double sure of the results. You were definitely dosed with one of Murdock's concoctions." 

Starsky's mouth fell open. He clamped it shut and snarled, "You're tellin' me I was shot up with animal shit? That the guy we busted for doing all kinds of creepy animal experiments was doing awful things to humans too?" 

"The lab guys are going through his storage unit so we don't know that he experimented on humans." 

"That's fabulous, Hutch," Starsky said with a shudder. "He's a first class psychotic and he's out on bail waiting for trial." 

"His bail's been revoked, for what that's worth." 

"Have they found him?" 

"No yet. He can't be far because we know he took you so the case would be tossed out. He had some reason to want the case dropped and to say in Bay City, or he'd have been long gone." 

"I don't get it. The guy's a nut job." 

"He's a highly intelligent nut job. The worse kind. He figured that we- or rather I would be willing to screw up the evidence against him, destroy it or do whatever it took to keep the case from moving forward." 

"You would never've done that," Starsky said firmly. Hutch looked away. "Hutch?"

"I can't say what I would do to keep you alive," Hutch admitted softly. "Things are..." His voice faltered. He cleared his throat. "Things are different now. Aren't they?" 

Starsky stared at the side of his partner's face for a long moment. He was ready to blast his partner into next week for considering the idea. But then he stopped himself. Could he honestly say what his boundaries would be if their roles had been reversed? Hang on. He'd already made that choice and that was back when he and Hutch were "only" partners. He'd put a bullet into the tail end of a car and blew two guys up. How could he judge Hutch? 

"I told you what he wanted me to do: get into evidence and screw it up, ruin it, steal it. He didn't care." 

Starsky didn't like the way this conversation was going. "So what about the drugs?" 

Hutch looked relieved. He put a hand on Starsky's arm. "I can say one thing for sure: they're not fatal." 

"But they didn't know that when they pumped them into me!" Starsky snapped out. "I could have died or been crippled for life." 

"No, they didn't," Hutch conceded. "So if it helps, attempted murder of a police officer's been added to Murdock's indictment. The Grand Jury-" 

"I swear, Hutch, if I ever get my hands on that perp, he'll find out that being shot with lead does to a human body." Starsky crossed his arms and shivered. He was cold and angry, his heart rate spiking with rage. "Asshole." 

"I know you don't mean that, not really, but you're right to be pissed off. And he's definitely an asshole." Hutch squeezed Starsky's hand. "The main thing is I'm glad you're all right." 

"Me, too." Starsky drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. He had to stay calm if he expected to get out of this room any time soon. Hutch was ready to wrap him in a soft baby blanket and carry him around. Oh, he didn't say that but Starsky could read Hutch like today's newspaper. Hutch was blaming himself, of course, and he was remembering the days, weeks and months that followed Gunther's hit. Starsky wasn't going to let either of them go back to that painful time. 

"So," Starsky said, "how about we ask the doctor nicely if I can get released today?" 

"I don't know-" 

"This morning when he stopped in for a few minutes he said if I had somebody at home, he'd think about it. I didn't want to tell him you were cool with me hanging out at your place unless I asked you first." Starsky kept his tone low and even. Merely a request, a suggestion. In public, they'd kept their relationship the same as always. Which meant that everybody figured they'd been in the sack together for the past, oh, seven or eight years. 

Hutch's eyes widened. "You mean you're actually asking me first? Wow. Those drugs really fried your brain, didn't they?" 

Starsky didn't dignify Hutch's remark. He lifted his chin and stayed quiet. He was determined not to beg. 

Hutch chewed on his lower lip. "You really want to go home?" 

"Yeah," Starsky said, unable to keep the smile from his lips. "Home. Please, Hutch." That wasn't begging, only asking. 

Hutch studied Starsky for a long minute. Starsky watched Hutch's brow wrinkle and his eyes flick over his face. He stayed quiet (for a change) until Hutch nodded. "I'll go and see." 

"Thanks, buddy," Starsky said, relieved. "Thanks." 

Starsky practiced patience, something he had to make himself do, and flipped through the latest Hot Rod magazine while he waited for his partner to return. Half an hour later had Hutch back in his room, with Doctor Patel beside him. 

"You'll follow my instructions to the letter?" Doctor Patel said in his precise English. The dark haired man wrote on his clip board. 

"Yes, sir," Starsky said at the same time Hutch did. 

The man raised his face and looked from one man to the other. "You are police officers, so you know about orders." 

"Yes, sir," Hutch said again. Starsky nodded. 

"Mr. Starsky, you are a lucky man. Thankfully the drugs are leaving your system quickly. It will take time to understand if there are any lasting affects since these drugs were not normally used on humans, and in the exotic combinations that we believe were used." 

"Great. Love being a guinea pig," Starsky said sarcastically. 

Doctor Patel tore off a sheet of paper. "Give this to your personal physician. I strongly suggest you see him within forty-eight hours. If you supply me with his name and facsimile number, I will have the proper paperwork sent to him to advise him of your condition." 

"Thanks, Doc," Starsky said. 

Hutch took the proffered paper. "I'll keep him out of trouble. Thank you, Doctor." Hutch shook hands with the man. 

"I'll send an orderly in to help with the wheelchair. Good day, gentlemen. "

"Nice guy," Starsky said after the doctor left. 

"You didn't complain about using a wheelchair. The stars will fall from the sky and the moon is made of green cheese." 

"Smart ass. I want out of here and you pushing me around works for me. Now where are my pants?" 

"Pants?" Hutch asked, his face coloring. He fidgeted. "Ahh, pants..." 

"Hutch! No pants? Geez, how many times have I told you, I gotta have pants! I can't walk down the hallway with my butt hanging out." Starsky sighed theatrically. "When are you gonna learn the rules?" 

"You can't walk anyway." 

"That's no excuse. I need pants and a shirt. And shoes." 

"Anything else, your majesty?" 

"Yeah! Make it snappy. I ain't' got all day." Starsky tried to look regal. "And I'm hungry." He added, for good measure, "Please, Hutch." He scratched his leg. "Hey! My leg itches!" 

"That's great." Hutch held up a finger. "I'll be right back." He went out the door, returning only a moment later and triumphantly he held up a paper bag. 

"Please tell me you got chili dogs!" Starsky asked eagerly. 

Hutch shook his head and dumped the bag onto Starsky's bed. Starsky leaned back, sure he'd be doused with something disgusting but when he blinked, all he saw were jeans, a red t-shirt, his sneakers and even his blue windbreaker. "Hey! Clothes!" He picked up white socks and looked at his partner. "Why didn't you say you brought me pants?" 

"It's always more fun when you get all hot and bothered." 

"Nice, Hutch. Really nice. Pick on the sick guy." 

"Poor baby," Hutch said, not at all sympathetic. "Let me help." 

Hutch took the socks from his hands and in short order, Starsky was dressed and his butt was planted in the wheelchair that an orderly brought into the room. 

"I've got him," Hutch told the man, who nodded and left. He pushed the chair forward but stopped. 

"Starsky?" 

Starsky looked up at Hutch from upside down. "Yeah?" 

"I- I never stopped looking for you." 

"I know. After all, if you'd'a stopped looking, you wouldn't have found me." Starsky turned to he could see his partner's face right side up. "You were scared and pissed off. I know how that feels." He put his hand over Hutch's. "I couldn't understand why you'd left me in that terrible place. I waited and waited for you to come and visit. I thought you'd dumped me for a younger guy." 

Hutch gave Starsky a tentative smile before he hurriedly looked away. 

"What?" Starsky asked. 

"Sorry. I'm sorry." 

Starsky hated the guilt he saw etched on Hutch's face. His white knight was always taking on more than he should. "No way! This isn't your fault." 

"How can you-" Hutch studied his shoes. 

"No." Starsky held up a hand. "Do not try to convince me that it is. You were doing what you're paid to do, what your conscience tells you to do. Same as me." He lowered his voice and said firmly, "Look at me. Please." Hutch slowly turned until Starsky could see his eyes. The pain there was hard to take but what Starsky saw mixed in with it made his heart skip a beat. So much love in those eyes. "I know you'd never abandon me. I know that. You're a good detective and a good partner. I gotta say, if this ever happens again, remember who you are. You're an honest man and I love you." Starsky smiled into loving blue eyes. "I know you'd do anything you could to save me, but don't ever sacrifice yourself for me. Got it?"

Hutch stared at Starsky, his mouth opening to protest, Starsky knew. "Shut it, Hutch. Besides, the thought of that cute butt of yours in the pokey makes me wanna barf." 

"I'm not going to jail, Starsk. I'd make sure to hide the bodies well." 

Starsky sniggered. "Are we sitting here all day or are we going for hot dogs?" 

Hutch pushed the wheelchair forward. Starsky leaned out and opened the door and Hutch went towards the elevators. 

"Besides," Starsky said quietly, looking upside down again at his partner, "if you did end up prison, I'd be sure to visit you. I'd bring you cigarettes and girly magazines." 

Hutch snorted with amusement. "I don't read girly magazines." 

Starsky laughed. "You would've had a new boyfriend too. Sweet bottom like yours." 

"Starsky!" Hutch said, horrified. He punched the down button. 

Starsky chuckled. The elevator pinged and the doors opened. Hutch pushed Starsky inside the empty car and Starsky hit the button for the ground floor. 

"Love you, blintz," Starsky whispered, leaning his head back against Hutch's belly. "More 'n you know." 

"I know, babe," Hutch said, one of his hands squeezing Starsky's shoulder. His fingers moved to rub at a stop below Starsky's ear. 

Starsky looked up and Hutch looked down. He leaned down and kissed Starsky's forehead. The elevator stopped and the door opened. Starsky pointed forward. "Let's get the flock out of here." 

"How about we blow this joint," Hutch offered. 

"Let's make like a bird and leave." 

"I thought it was make like a tree and leaf." Hutch ruffled Starsky's hair. 

Laughing together, Hutch rolled Starsky over to his latest ride, a 1974 Dodge Coronet. 

"Ah, yes, the chariot of the gods," Starsky said, waving expansively. He leaned in and kissed the fender. "I'm even glad to see this heap." 

Hutch opened the door and helped Starsky inside. He leaned in. "Don't knock it. This is the chariot that taking you home." 

"Chili dogs first," Starsky reminded his partner. 

"Chicken soup from Canter's?" Hutch asked. He closed the door and climbed in the driver's side. 

Starsky licked his lips. "Canter's? They got great meatloaf." 

"Yes, they do." Hutch laughed, and started the engine. 

"Carry out?" 

"Nah. I thought I'd go in and eat. Leave you in the car." 

"You're a real pal, Hutch." 

"I know." 

"Well, come on. You drive like an old lady." 

"I love you too, Starsk." 

"Yeah, yeah. I love you too. But right now, meatloaf has all of my affections." 

End


End file.
